


I am dark matter, your road to ruin

by devilcode



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Brought to you by gratuitous abuse of the em dash, But Also Possession, Edelbert Trick-or-Treat (Fire Emblem), F/M, Vampires, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27346483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilcode/pseuds/devilcode
Summary: “Because what you do is too secretive even for the Emperor and your right-hand lieutenant, is that it?”“They are trifling matters—”Her brush clacked against the travel vanity with far more force than it should have. “—that are beneath my concern, yet occupy you so often for entire stretches of the night and having you looking like you wandered through a slaughterhouse. Are there really that many assassins waiting to descend upon me the instant the sun dips beneath the horizon?”Hubert drew in a breath, forcing the furrow from his brow. Patience. Perhaps he had been growing a little too eager, in his hunts.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23
Collections: Edelbert Trick-or-Treat 2020





	I am dark matter, your road to ruin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ehmazing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ehmazing/gifts).



> My belated contribution for the Edelbert Trick-or-Treat event over on twitter! The prompt was day/night transformations for the wonderful @ehmazing, whom is quite possibly my favorite writer on this site. Check out their fanastic fics, if you have the time!
> 
> There's something about Edelbert that lends itself so well to vampires, and in just about every work I've seen, Edelgard is the vampire. I thought it would be neat to explore options for Hubert.

In hindsight, Hubert wasn’t sure whether it was arrogance or desperation that drove him to do it. Both, likely.

Between Adrestia’s long tradition of inclination towards magic and House Vestra’s penchant for the obscure, he wasn’t surprised to find the pages detailing the old practices of a far-off land supposedly beyond Dagda: spirit-calling. It seemed to be a cousin of what Fódlan called dark magic, or perhaps that far-off land’s school of it. No matter what it was, the Hubert of years ago had thought it an answer.

And it was an answer—of some kind. A misguided kind. There was surely a reason that the practices hadn’t been employed or adapted, even beyond the usual suspects; House Vestra, in its millennium of service, was too practical to yield to the Church’s condemnation, the antiquity of the writings, and Fódlan’s general allergy to the foreign. But Hubert had thought himself a prodigy of Reason then, in the youth of teenage years, and believed himself to be stripped of ignorance by the Insurrection and keen enough to tell if it began to get out of hand.

He had no choice, Hubert had told himself. He and Lady Edelgard were so very outmatched by the Church, their political adversaries, and the demon that walked in Lord Arundel’s flesh. They needed an edge. They needed something that would compensate for their youthful inexperience and the double lives they had to lead; the Crest of Flames filled that role for Lady Edelgard, giving her abilities far beyond the normal person when her dual Crests weren’t causing her pains, but Hubert had no such boon to supplement his combat prowess or blunt the scourge of exhaustion.

In those obscure writings, he’d found something called a night spirit—or dark moon spirit, the translations weren’t clear. A ritual could bind one to his body, and from there, invite it in or suppress it with further constructs of dark magic, so long as the spirit’s demands were met.

Even then, he could see the idea’s danger. The writings were old, their translation suspect, and further through the collection there seemed to be several pages damaged by poor preservation. Hubert had heard of no other mage employing such a practice, not even in whispers or ghost stories or among House Vestra’s sorcerers. It did remind him a little of scraps he’d heard of Brigid’s lore, but aside from that…

No choice. He had to be quicker, stronger, tougher than anyone expected of a scrawny boy of fifteen, and sooner or later, someone was going to catch onto the fact that he was hardly sleeping, if sleepless blunders didn’t get him killed first.

What hubris that had been.

\---

The ritual worked flawlessly, in the beginning. Under the light of day, the night spirit’s very predictable antithesis, nothing was different. Lady Edelgard still frowned at how little he ate, and painted him with bruises whenever they drilled combat exercises together. His Reason study came along well, even if it was still too weak to be fatal without a dramatic advantage. His father still eyed him impassively whenever they met, and the miserable pig of a Duke still complained that Hubert was far too pallid and unsociable to land an appropriate wife, because didn’t he think it was about time House Vestra introduced a Crest into its bloodline?

But in the silence of night, stalking through Enbarr’s deep shadows, he could feel the spirit come alive with a word of command. The exhaustion of the day peeled away like a husk to leave a solid vitality like Hubert had never felt before. An unseen strength thrummed in his thin arms, and fleetingly he wondered if this was what having a Crest was like. It all had a price, of course; the spirit would wane its power to dormancy if it felt its will was not met frequently enough. What an unscrupulous price it was, at that—but if he was awake to do unscrupulous acts in the process, it wasn’t so unreasonable.

Anything, for Lady Edelgard, and her new dawn. Let him wander the shroud of darkness that the monsters called haven, and become the monster that _they_ feared.

And so did they fear him, as Hubert bled them before their deaths, those thugs under the Duke’s employ and the corrupt judges in Count Varley’s pocket and the little stray rats that wandered too far from Arundel’s watchful gaze. If the night spirit’s price was blood, then Hubert would throw it a feast, so long as no undeserving blood spilled for it.

Every new day when Hubert silently returned to his room, the spirit retreating back to slumber as morning’s light chased it away, none of the fatigue remained. It was like every hour that the spirit occupied his form was equal to an hour of the best rest he’d ever had in his life.

They had a chance this way, to outsmart the older and wiser, and overpower the inhuman.

\---

“Hubert? Are you sure you’ll be alright?”

Except something changed, during that long year at Garreg Mach. The slightest pinch sat in Edelgard’s brow as she sat across from him, the remnants of her breakfast neatly pushed aside while he nursed his coffee. How fortunate that he enjoyed the taste of it, given how pointless the caffeine had become.

Because the spirit came to him every night, now, without his beckoning. Even starving it didn’t cause it to go truly dormant anymore. It whispered, it urged, so quietly in his mind.

“You shouldn’t be pursuing so many activities—” engaging in subterfuge, she can’t say in public, “—before your wound has a chance to heal. You know magic will only do so much.”

And in turn, he can’t say the wound already has, public or not. His lady was far too keen to allow even the slightest of slips; honestly, it surprised him that Hubert had managed to hide his… alteration for so many years. All he does is smile faintly back.

“It is nothing but a trifle, Lady Edelgard. I would gladly endure greater discomfort for your cause; you know this.”

She frowned, but the expression bled quickly into something between exasperation and concern as Edelgard raised a hand to her temple.

“Just… promise me that you’ll rest tonight. I can’t afford to lose you on the battlefield to fatigue.”

“As you say.”

Rest. When was the last time he’d tried to sleep? Superfluous, that. No, feeding the spirit tonight would be revitalizing enough. With the activity about at night in the wake of Flayn’s disappearance, Hubert hadn’t had a chance for some time. The spirit had been so very patient with him.

Something had changed, in that arcane bond. It had come about so subtly that Hubert wasn’t truly sure _when_ it had shifted. He only knew _what_ had changed, aside from the spirit’s new permanency, and why it was so difficult to be concerned of said permanency.

Hubert was beginning to enjoy these bloody feasts.

\---

It was nothing short of a boon that their forces rarely engaged at night, despite the prowess that the spirit granted him. Hubert could only slip away from supporting their front line so much, or accidentally lose his battalion in the fog or woods. The Black Eagles had many perceptive members among them, and while Hubert had grown adept at diverting Edelgard’s attention, he doubted his deceptions would survive Petra’s scrutiny.

He still wasn’t entirely sure they had, after he had to fake a fall one night from a blunt blow that had struck him squarely in the chest. The princess had cut his adversary down in short order, but a look had lingered in her eyes as she felt for broken ribs. Hubert couldn’t deny the chill in his spine when she muttered something about glancing blows and slippery forest spirits before darting off.

Yet Petra never broached the topic. Perhaps her comment had merely been one of superstition and concern, if Edelgard’s resulting chiding about carelessness was anything to go by.

It’s for the best that Hubert had begun to add to the rumors that naturally surrounded him. Suspicious, insidious, too enamored with dark magic. He’d caught one, once, about unusual features that laid underneath his omnipresent gloves, and latched onto that rumor. The spirit was already beginning to do things to his teeth at night; he’d caught Bernadetta staring before fainting, but their lack in the daylight had allowed him to play off to her fearful delusions when she delivered her apology.

Hubert did feel remorse for that, of all things. The poor girl had endured enough without having her grasp of reality questioned for his own gain.

But despite his slips, it was perhaps unsurprising that his persistently infuriating variable proved to be the biggest problem. He could never tell what the professor was thinking, but Hubert was certain she was watching him as closely as he did her. It was utterly hypocritical to accuse her of having something lurking just below the surface, he knew, but between himself and Arundel, he could recognize it anywhere. Byleth's briefly averted gaze had perhaps been the greatest tell she’d ever given him.

Her voice called to him, one night on the bridge to the cathedral.

“You’re out late again.”

“As are you, Professor. Vigilant for the nefarious, as always?” 

Byleth didn’t answer immediately, stepping to the edge of the great stone bridge and casting her newly verdant gaze down the dark cliffs below. Hubert didn’t follow suit. “You barely eat or sleep, yet your studies never fall behind. I’m impressed.”

Hubert narrowed his eyes, watching the Professor’s back. There wasn’t a soul around. He could push her over that precarious railing, or snap her neck, and be done with this potential threat. An alien urge bubbled within his chest, in the sea of his mind, wondering what a Crest tasted like—what the Crest of _Flames_ tasted like.

No. Not yet. The professor was always so uncannily vigilant, as if she knew at times what the others around her were about to do.

“My age makes itself apparent. I’m no longer growing, as many of your students are; I can do without.”

Byleth hummed a non-committal noise, and fell again to silence. Hubert waited, for a time, but just before he dismissed himself in impatience, she spoke again in that eerily flat voice of hers.

“Your business is your own. I won’t ask. Just remember you have a lot to learn. We all do.”

“Why, that almost sounds like a threat, Professor. Is there something you object to about my late nights, perhaps?”

She didn’t flinch when she turned about to meet his steady gaze; Byleth never did.

“I’m just concerned.”

“About what?”

“The knights noticing.” Before Hubert could retort, the odd woman carried on; there was something about her quiet, empty voice and too-knowing eyes that could always halt whatever he had to say. “If they do, it won’t hurt only you,” she said carefully.

Hubert didn’t answer immediately. His hands clenched behind his back, clenched around the naggingly insistent urge to split open her throat, now, _do it now, she is dangerous._

“I will take your concern under advisement, Professor. You have my gratitude,” he spoke without any trace of such gratitude, cautious to speak without displaying the pointed tips of his teeth. Perhaps it _was_ concern; Edelgard had taken to confiding in the Professor, after all.

He still heard only threats.

Byleth shrugged. “It’s not my business.” She turned to carry on, but paused, then pushed something into his hand. “You dropped this a while ago.”

Only once her footsteps had retreated into the Cathedral did Hubert glare down at the once-noxious rag in his grasp, the corner of it lightly speckled with the ruddy dots of old blood.

\---

It grew better—or worse, he could hardly tell after so many years—during the war. Without playing at the day structure of Garreg Mach, he had more freedom to organize his own affairs, and to advise Edelgard towards courses of action where his… quieter talents would be at their most advantageous.

And most importantly, avoid conflict during certain days of the month. He’d learned why the old writings were sometimes translated as “dark moon” in place of “night”; the spirit was at its peak while the new moon hung in the sky and complete darkness shrouded the land. On those nights, the spirit considered _his_ demands, not the other way around. Pain held no grasp on him, and wounds knit together as if under the care of an invisible physician. His senses sharpened beyond what he thought possible and power coiled in every fiber of his being. His magic drew from a well of something so much deeper and darker.

It was exhilarating.

Hubert’s inhibitions bled away on those nights, his carefully cultivated and ironclad discipline suddenly so… stifling. Inconsequential. There was a song in the absolute silence of the night, one he’d only begun to hear. A torrent of heartbeats, all dancing in time; some at rest, others in agitation, and those of his prey a rattling beat of panic not unlike rain. And fear his enemies would, beset upon by their executioner. He could accomplish so much under the veil of the new moon, rid the world of so much vermin.

Some corner of his mind, always objective and cold and analytical recognized this as dangerous and alarming.

And yet, as he sauntered through the remains of a once-slumbering bandit camp, alone but for the company of the spirit and skirting the too-bright glow of a dying campfire, Hubert couldn’t bring himself to care. The spirit-calling had gone horribly awry, he acknowledged as he hoisted the cowering survivor from the grasp of Banshee Θ, smiling. He could no longer suppress the spirit, nor undo the arcane bonding that had anchored it to him; they were becoming one and the same, and as his fangs tore into the man’s carotid, cemented that union a fraction more.

And Hubert felt grateful something had gone wrong.

\---

“What happened, Your Majesty?!”

The words left his mouth before he’d even fully charged into Edelgard’s tent—and jolted to a stop at the utterly normal scene laid out before him: his lady, perched before the travel mirror in her nightgown; bits of her morning routine laid out before her as she worked a brush through her hair; steam curled up from behind the partition, likely that of a freshly drawn bath awaiting her. Hubert’s brow furrowed.

“Pardon me—my lieutenant led me to believe there was a dire emergency.”

Edelgard’s gaze flicked up in the mirror to meet his, her eyes cold amethyst.

“And _I_ was under the impression you at least communicated with your own soldiers whenever you take off to tend to your own affairs, if not myself or Byleth. You were gone all night, Hubert, and not one knew where you were. An “emergency” was the only thing to bring you running.”

He could hear the unspoken words: _and even then, it took hours._ The gaze of her reflection swept slightly down, lingering pointedly, and Hubert was left starkly aware of the drying blood stiffening the front of his coat and staining what was visible of his shirt. “It isn’t mine,” he dismissed quickly, straightening his posture and folding his hands behind his back. “And with all due respect, Lady Edelgard, but that hardly constitutes an _emergency._

“Because what you do is too secretive even for the Emperor and your right-hand lieutenant, is that it?”

“They are trifling matters—”

Her brush clacked against the travel vanity with far more force than it should have. “—that are beneath my concern, yet occupy you so often for entire stretches of the night and having you looking like you wandered through a slaughterhouse. Are there really that many assassins waiting to descend upon me the instant the sun dips beneath the horizon?”

Hubert drew in a breath, forcing the furrow from his brow. Patience. Perhaps he had been growing a little too eager, in his hunts.

“I was careless tonight. A reckless blow made matters far… messier than anticipated. I’m sorry for concerning you, Your Majesty. I will endeavor to leave a method to reach me with my subordinates whenever possible in the future.”

Her brow pinched further, and Hubert knew not why. He waited silently as Edelgard fussed with tending her calluses. The thought of leaving crossed his mind, but she’d given him no clear dismissal; his lady certainly wouldn’t have hesitated, if that was what she wanted to do.

His thoughts turned to the mad dash through the army’s camp after his lieutenant had broken the news. Dawn hadn’t yet reached the sky; the gloom had only begun to lighten with the approaching sun, but it was enough to drive the spirit back to dormancy. Edelgard’s role necessitated waking early, but this early…

“Milady,” he ventured into the tense silence, “have you slept?”

“Have you?”

His jaw tightened briefly, reading petulance into her calm retaliation. “No, milady. I was of mind to rest through the first meal, before we march.”

Edelgard rose, finally, turning and approaching him. Even years down the line, it marveled him that despite her diminutive height, his lady felt no smaller for it. Her expression had changed subtly from the look in the mirror; quiet anger bleeding into a less pointed frustration.

“I won’t demand to know what you were doing. I know you won’t answer me; you never do.” Something in her expression flickered in a way Hubert couldn’t put a name to, and something in it bled his own frustration away. Edelgard glanced aside “But whatever harm you no doubt feel you’re protecting me from, consider that worry only acts in its stead. If something had befallen you while you were out there—”

“Nothing will,” he assured. His fingers clenched behind his back, fighting the urge to tilt her face back up. This was why Hubert had taken the power he did, to ensure he could contribute beyond his regular means and return safely. Anything, for her. If only he could say as much. “I swear it. I’m of no use to you dead.”

Another flash of expression—this one a return of her prior anger, much to his confusion. But it was gone as quickly as it came, and Edelgard whirled away, stalking back to her travel vanity.

“I don’t know how you managed to sneak up on anyone reeking of blood and death. You should take the bath.”

He should what?

“I—pardon?”

The towel hit the center of Hubert’s chest at speed with a dull _whump_ , and he hardly raised a hand in time to catch it before it tumbled to the ground. He was too busy gawking at Edelgard’s back; her face was angled as so he couldn’t glimpse her expression in the mirror.

“I don’t know how many times you’ve washed blood from my hair,” his lady responded after a moment. “I believe I’m long overdue to return the favor.”

More silence.

He cleared his throat. “I'm grateful for your consideration, but I insist that this is hardly necessary, or proper, Your Majesty.”

Did he imagine it, or did the slope of her shoulders fall?

“So. You refuse me in this, as well.”

“Was it an order?”

Edelgard scoffed, a derisive sound. “I hardly see the point in ordering you about, considering how selectively you obey them.”

A request, then. Why? The sounds of activity outside the tent was still distant, still far off from the din of the army; only the cooks, the animal hands, the night watch, and others of the sort should be milling about at this hour. Hubert had half a mind to ask about after her lady’s maid, but…

No, that would go a step too far and insult Edelgard’s intelligence, wouldn’t it? She would be the last to endanger her credibility—to endanger everything she’s suffered for—with careless scandal. She had some kind of design in mind. Purpose, even if it was immediately lost on him. Maybe it _was_ as simple as the stench of blood he’d grown long accustomed to.

Wordlessly, he yielded. Even if the partition was a great deal shorter than he was, it served its purpose—not that Edelgard even turned around until well after he’d settled. Laying the towel across the rims of the tub did well enough for decency, even if it didn’t hide the small runic mark branded low on his sternum, in line with his heart—the spirit’s anchor. Hubert busied himself with scrubbing blood from his arms where it had seeped beneath his sleeves, and fixing his gaze on the ruddy bits flaking into the water. It certainly helped occupy his attention away from the burning need to crawl out of his skin when Edelgard quietly settled a stool behind him with a basin. To think, _bathing_ in front of his lady...

If she saw the mark on his chest, she made no comment of it.

“When did you become so distant?” Edelgard broke the silence, her voice mild as she tilted his head back over the basin. Questing fingers threaded through his short hair for knots and mats. Hubert couldn’t stop his eyes from fluttering shut at the brushes against his scalp, and before his better judgement could rein him in, tilted so subtly into her touch.

“Distant, my lady? I must be in someone else’s bath.”

She wasn’t in the mood for his quip by the way her fingers just happened to tug roughly against the blood dried in his fringe. From the faint scent, she must have started working soap into it.

“I know less about what you do than I ever have. You make every show of standing on ceremony, yet ignore me anytime you see fit.”

“There are matters that should not distract your atten—”

“ _Don’t._ ” The curt word, so harshly bitten off, stopped his own in his throat. Edelgard’s fingers had stopped as well, lightly clenched around the blood-matted lock of hair. “Do you realize you are the only one I would permit to make such decisions for me? I _trust_ you, Hubert, more than anyone. The least you could do is extend me the same courtesy.”

Did she doubt him? Something unfamiliar twisted in his stomach as he opened his eyes, tilting back to meet her gaze. “I do.” Hubert found he couldn’t read Edelgard’s expression. That bothered him more than it should. 

“Then speak to me, as you used to. Where were you?” she ventured, her tone just shy of gentle.

“In the woods. Our scouts had found evidence of a small party passing through, likely belonging to the Knights. I left to confirm the information, and deal with it.”

“On foot. Alone. Without informing any of our war party.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It wasn’t necessary.”

Edelgard exhaled, an exhaustion painting under her eyes that Hubert hadn’t noticed before. Her attention fell back on his hair, and her lathering continued. “I still don’t understand why you simply did not inform me… just as I do not understand how you can only measure yourself in usefulness to me, or how you can so easily dismiss my worry.”

Water ran across his scalp, the warming sensation making the morning’s chill all the more apparent as it passed. Edelgard’s hand smoothed the excess water away, feeling for lingering mats. He remained silent, the weight of her words settling uncomfortably across his mind as her fingers danced slowly across his scalp. There was something stuck between them, something that he did not know how to bridge.

Perhaps she was right about his distance.

“You are my oldest friend, Hubert. I’ve lost so much already. I can’t lose you, too—to death, or our burdens.”

Done with her part, she left him to finish scrubbing the remaining blood from his chest and neck and to stew in his doubts.

\---

The javelins of light that erased indomitable Arianrhod from the face of the earth would mar his nightmares, likely for the rest of his life. Power unimaginable to wholly decimate the fortress city, and everything within it. Had Hubert delayed his departure at all…

He could feel it rattle the spirit, as well. Normally a subtle, formless presence, the entity rattled within him like the hunted trembling before the predator. Even from the distance Hubert had been at, the blinding light… scared it. Harmed it? It was difficult to say of such an alien presence that seemed to possess a kind of will, yet no detectable consciousness other than the manner it infected his own..

But the spirit retreated that night, even though dawn was far off, and in his own shock, Hubert had hardly noticed until after the fact. Even then, far more pressing matters than things that made the spirit cower fought for his attention; the war was beginning to close. An invisible fever pitch rose among the army, creeping and tense, soul-deep exhaustion intermingling with hope.

There was so very much to do. Equipment conditioning and replacement for the aggressive final push into Faerghus, notices of death and compensation for Arianrhod’s missing to be organized and distributed, quarantining the equine flu sweeping through the 3rd pegasi battalion, procurement of cold-weather gear, relocating resources from—

On, and on, endlessly devouring his attention. Hubert had not the time to deal with the rise of the new moon now of all times, but the complications of remaining on Garreg Mach’s grounds were too great a threat. If he—

“Hey. Your mistress is looking for you.”

Hubert’s head snapped away from his report, footsteps pausing. He hadn’t noticed Shamir leaning against the gate in his haste. She wasn’t even looking at him, making a show of fussing with an arrow’s fletching. The corner of her mouth quirked up, as if in anticipation of Hubert’s narrowing glare, and before he could bark a reprimand she waved a hand dismissively.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” the mercenary continued, exasperation staining her tone. “Her Majesty. Proper form of address.” Shamir finally glanced up, that agitating smirk still in place. “What’d you do? Looked like she was on quite the war path. That little mage, too, the white-haired one, and the Hevring kid.”

“I have done nothing of note,” and as the words left his mouth, Hubert knew the snap in his voice did nothing to make him look guiltless, but he could feel sunset’s fading rays on the back of his neck. “Not that I owe you any form of explanation. Now, if you excuse me, they will have to wait; I have urgent business to attend to.”

The arrow twirled effortlessly between Shamir’s fingers, reversing to settle point-first in her hand. “Let me guess. Another of your little rat hunts?”

“What else would it be?” But before he could stalk off, the former knight stepped into his path heedless of his glare, her own expression sobering a little.

“Look, I meant it. Your Emperor seemed really on edge. Why don’t you go take care of her, and give me the details on your mark? Won’t even charge you, just this once.”

He did not have time for this. _He did not have time for this_. “And _I_ meant that it can wait. You do not get to determine my priorities.” This time his shoulder collided with Shamir’s as he marched forward, a scowl drawn across his face.

Her scoff followed him. “Never thought I’d hear those words from you. Brushing off your great, perfect Emperor—you really are unstable, Hubert.”

Lost time, precious time. He’d already been careless to let his duties sweep the time away before an imminent new moon. The spirit was already stirring in his chest by the time he reached the monastery’s second floor, just short of running for his office. Heartbeats began to rise all around him, not like the awakening songs of insects. It would be too dangerous to wander through the grounds again once the new moon darkness swallowed his will, he’d have to warp away—and suddenly he stopped, the door of his office-half shoved open, as a sound pulled him from his thoughts. A heartbeat, directly ahead of him.

Hubert turned a wide-eyed gaze to Edelgard as she tugged the door from his grasp to open it the rest of the way. No. No, no, not now.

“There you are.” There was something hard in her eyes. “I was hoping to catch you before you ran off again. You were going to, weren’t you?”

So close. He could feel the changes forming in his teeth, the strength building in his body. Rising horror granted him a better grip on his will, but his grasp slipped still.

“—yes, I was. I must move quickly. My agents say he is attempting to flee to Dagda, now if you excuse me,” he spoke, a hair too quickly in his ears to convincingly sell it. An iron grip caught his arm as Hubert rounded on his heel to leave.

_He could feel her pulse, so faintly, through the leather lining the inside of her gauntlet. Every beat of it an electric shock, a siren’s call. What would it feel like without the glove? Truly, at what point in their lives had they stopped touching?_

“Weren’t you about to enter your office? Don’t let me intrude.” And that iron grip yanked him inside, something harsh in the controlled movement. A reflexive indignation rose in Hubert’s chest, and he just barely stamped it out as he regained his balance. The door clicked shut, and when he turned a glare to challenge Edelgard’s actions, he found her own readily meeting him. “It wouldn’t do for you to forget something in your rush.”

“What is this?” No time, no time, she couldn’t _be here—_

“You tell me, Hubert. I’ve never seen talk of unsavory business render you look like a startled deer.” Edelgard did not move, and despite the ease in her stance belied only by her stern expression, he could tell she intended to bar him.

_She intended to corner him, like some kind of prey. Dangerous. Dangers must be dealt with._

No. Focus. Deep breaths. Explaining his actions didn’t matter, not right now. So long as he could break away, they could speak of this later when he was himself again. The spirit’s presence roiled in his chest, roiled against his diminishing will.

Deep breaths. Hubert closed his eyes, running a hand through his hair. “Please, Lady Edelgard. I need to leave—now. I swear to you, I will explain later.” He started towards his desk and the drawer that held the components for his warp.

A red-clad hand slammed the drawer shut, and amethyst eyes bore into his. “No. You will tell me _now._ What are you hiding, Hubert?”

There was lavender in the soap she used, he could smell it now. The scent clung to his lady so imperceptibly after the day’s course, he wouldn’t have caught it without the spirit’s senses. And as his will buckled, splintered, hers was ever unyielding. Marvelous.

Why _had_ Hubert ever grown so distant?

“I’m not hiding anything, my lady.” An automatic answer. A pathetic one. Edelgard thought so as well, with the derisive sound she answered with.

“Is that an answer you’re obligated to give to me as Minister, or do you truly believe me to be so naive?”

_What did the Crest of Seiros taste like?_

Hubert had to move away, some part of him knew, but… not why. The importance of that fact felt so very immaterial. Despite the teeming strength of the spirit he lacked the strength to look away from her eyes.

“I’ll tell you everything. Later,” Hubert urged, but his voice sounded distant even to his own ears. Distance. Why had that been important? It had been imperative, at some point, but he couldn’t fathom why. Not when Edelgard stood so close. He remembered the brush of her fingers, that morning she’d washed his hair. What a tragedy she hid her hands in gloves and gauntlets. Hubert’s thumb brushed against her jaw before he’d even realized he’d moved, and something faltered in the iron of his lady’s glare. What a shame _he_ hid his hands in gloves. “Later. Please.”

Later. There was something else he was forgetting. Later, after what? Expressions warred on his lady’s face, between her prior harshness and something reluctant. Hubert scarcely noticed, with her heartbeat singing in his ears, strong and beautiful.

_What did the Crest of Seiros taste like? The Crest of Flames?_

_No._

_What did **she** taste like?_

His hand was still against her jaw. “Hubert—”

Edelgard only had time enough to say his name before he stooped to kiss her. Why had he ever wanted distance, to orbit the center of his world than to know her? The press of his lips wasn’t the most suave affair for his inexperience, but Hubert let the affection, the desire, speak for itself.

She pressed back uncertainly after the longest moment, her pulse thundering erratically. The brush of Edelgard’s lips were far superior to the brush of her fingers, but the latter wasn’t unwelcome; her hands hesitantly crawled up his coat to rest by his collar, his own free hand rising to her hip—

Edelgard slammed him into the wall, hard enough to rattle his teeth. The hands fisted in his coat held him still when Hubert tried to push away, and his vision cleared to restrained fury etched into her face.

“It’s as Bernadetta said,” she muttered, and only then did Hubert realize he was snarling, fangs bared in the process. Edelgard’s fists tightened, drawing his coat tighter around his neck, and pressed him harder against the wall. “What did you _do_ , Hubert? That didn’t even stun you!”

She was right, of course. The ache in his skull was far too diminutive to constitute his head bouncing off the monastery’s stone. Not that it mattered. His prior indignation ran wild, this time.

“Release me,” Hubert hissed, his hands finding her wrists. At her refusal Hubert braced a leg against the wall and _pushed_ —and delighted in the way Edelgard’s eyes shot wide when he began to move her, his twisting hands threatening to break her grip. It wasn’t easy; such a feat took everything he had, but he’d always wondered how the spirit’s strength measured against hers.

For the first time in both their lives, Hubert could match her. Exhilarating.

But the spirit could not match Edelgard’s skill, and with a violent twist from her his world upended and tumbled until he hit the bookcase on the opposite wall of his office. He laughed, staggering to his feet; Edelgard, of all people, threw him across the room, and he hardly felt a thing.

“What. did. you. do,” she growled from beside the other wall, her stance just low enough to be at the ready. Hubert chuckled again, rolling his neck to a series of pops.

“Does it matter? It serves us—” 

“Answer me!”

What rage, painted across Edelgard’s face. She’s always harbored it since the tragedies, a deeply controlled storm woven into every fiber of her being, but Hubert couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen it worn so openly. Her pulse sang with such emotion.

“I bound an ancient spirit to myself with my magic, my lady. Does that satisfy you?” He stepped forward, the pull of her heartbeat too irresistible. Edelgard didn’t flinch. “So long as I am under the cover of darkness and feed it, I have nothing to fear. No sickness, no pain, no sleep. My wounds knit together.” Another step closer. “We owe so much of our progress to it, Lady Edelgard. Even if I _wanted_ to be rid of it, I couldn't break the bond any longer.”

“This is what you want to build our new dawn on? Corpses, with their throats torn out by an animal?”

“I only selected those that required elmina—” Hubert stopped, eyes narrowing. The spirit whispered more danger in his soul. “You know.”

“ _We_ know,” Edelgard corrected, voice bitter. “Did you truly think your comrades wouldn’t notice? Your hours, your teeth, your uncharacteristic vitality, the mark on your chest?” This time, it was her turn to step forward, and Hubert’s gloves creaked under his clenching fists. “Petra found some of the bodies, Hubert. Between all of us, we know.”

“Shamir was trying to trap me,” he muttered. “Stall me through the last minutes before sun down.” _But it doesn’t matter. It’s too late_. The alien sentiment hardly floated in his mind before Hubert was echoing it, following its whims. “It doesn’t matter, Lady Edelgard. It’s bound to me. I can’t be rid of it. I can make it beneficial to us. I _have_ made it beneficial. Now…”

_Now. Now, now, no more waiting._ He stepped forward again, halfway across the office. The spirit was being so very patient. And it made Hubert so very curious. A wave of his hand brought magic swirling to wait at the tips of his fingers; a precautionary measure only.

“It _needs_ to feed, Lady Edelgard. You wouldn’t let me go; now choose you, or someone else. The process need not be fatal.”

This time, when Hubert approached, Edelgard swung. And this time, something blinded him, burning away the gloom of the office. The scream was his, Hubert realized belatedly, laid out on the floor by the far wall again, but this time pain blazed in his chest unlike anything he’d ever felt under the spirit’s influence. Hubert clutched at the aching spot, as darkness settled into the room once more.

They stared dumbly at each other, for a moment, Edelgard’s fist still outstretched from her swing, Hubert in his shock and the Emperor in surprise. The spirit _still_ screamed, raving and rattling and flooding him with panic and all Hubert could do was fling the spell—

Light blazed through the room again before he could cast. It robbed him of his sight, set the spirit alight with agony, and Hubert tried to instinctively shrink back against the wall, to no avail. That unbearable radiance persisted this time, unlike the flash of before, searing into him body and soul.

His vision returned—eventually, partially. He knew not how long it took. Seconds, minutes, hours, he couldn’t grasp a bit of it. But when Hubert glanced up, shielding his eyes from the light, he saw Edelgard standing still, observing him… and the Crest of Flames manifest over her hand.

But that wasn’t how it should be. That persistent, ceaselessly objective part of Hubert’s mind pushed forward. He could think now, with the spirit retreating deeper from the Crest. Manifesting Crests did shed some light, yes, as all magic did… but it shouldn’t have shone like this, like the lines it etched in the air were made of liquid sunlight. He’d watched Edelgard manifest it before, something paler and fainter. Was it only his eyes?

Goddess. The spirit… It’d tried to make him feed from her. It’d… made him do monstrous things, taking little by little more of him as the years progressed. And it undermined his principles to make it happen—to make him _want_ it. The further the spirit retreated, the easier he could see it all. Dawn, the campfires he’s grown to avoid, the attack on Arianrhod...

“Light,” Hubert gasped around the sharp stabs of pain in his ribs, “firelight, daylight, your Crest, _light_. It hurts it.”

He couldn’t see Edelgard’s expression, not for the way her Crest blinded him, but something in the way she knelt beside him was gentler than this whole encounter had been.

“What do I do?”

“I don’t know.” Think, think. Edelgard might not be able to hold it at bay forever. He’d bound it to the anchoring rune, originally, and back then… “I— _nrgh_ —could control it, once. It did something. Made the bond permanent.”

“Can we remove the mark?”

“If you want to excise an entire piece of my flesh. I won’t stop you.”

Hubert pressed harder where Edelgard’s fist had landed. Pain answered, but breathing came easier; she’d certainly broken a rib, at least. As he rested his head against the cold stone of the wall, something… felt off. Subtle, at first, like the first waves of a migraine, or perhaps vertigo. Slowly, his head began to swim, a horrible phantom weight pulling at his chest, his eyes, his mind, dragging his thoughts to a muddy stop.

It was… familiar, yet he couldn’t place the feeling.

A clatter snapped Hubert back to the moment, and he realized Edelgard’s silence hadn’t been her retaliation to his wry gallows humor. She’d shaken off the crimson gauntlet of her free hand; he stared at the pale, scar-laced arm offered to him as comprehension sluggishly dawned.

“No. It wants that.”

“It could be wrong. You—and it—didn’t realize what the Crest of Flames would do. The Crest of Flames is in my _blood_ , Hubert.”

How rational. Her logic was easy enough to follow; the spirit required blood, and only blood. Feeding was its one direct action with the world that was not filtered through Hubert himself. Blood was the one way to directly affect it.

And, yet....

Goddess, how had he _wanted_ this, mere moments ago? How had he thought of her lifeblood like a tempting bottle of liquor, unique and one of a kind, to spill her blood along this crimson path of theirs as part of an obsessive curiosity?

For the first time in the last decade, the idea of blood was sickening.

But what choice did he have? He’d invited a demon of his own making into his flesh and soul in fear, and ultimately for power. Hubert had always believed that so long as there was justifiable cause, the means were irrelevant. But this… the cost of the spirit was far too high. Dethroning monsters from the rule of Fódlan with anything but the hands of humans would defeat the very purpose. So he dipped head, baring his fangs for hopely the last time, and bit.

—and jerked back, sputtering and coughing.

“Hubert, what is it?”

He brought his other hand gingerly to his lips, surprised they weren’t blistered. A low chuckle rolled brokenly from him, to the immediate regret of his damaged rib. “Your Crest—is certainly in your blood. It’s… scalding.” Except not literally, apparently. There was no injury to his mouth, but that meant…

It affected the spirit’s influence. Edelgard seemed to reach the same conclusion. He could practically hear the furrow in her brow. “This will work.”

“This will work. Miserably. What an appropriate price.”

“...Maybe there’s another way. This… whatever it is stops during the day, doesn’t it? We’ll have more time.”

“No. The spirit comes out most on the new moon. If there is any time to banish it... This has gone on long enough.”

Silence answered him, at first, and again Hubert wished he could see Edelgard’s expression behind the beacon in her hand. Instead, she pressed gently on his shoulder. Her hand guided him down until he was inclined against her lap.

“I understand,” Edelgard spoke down at him. There’s iron in her voice again. “Then I will not stop until it’s done, whatever that may be.”

Even if he couldn’t see her face, Hubert hoped the appreciation showed on his. He pressed his teeth again into the offered wrist in hopes a better flow would end this miserable affair sooner.

And, well. He certainly was right about the misery.

Under the spirit’s influence, blood had been delectable. Mostly rich, sometimes savory, rarely sweet, always somewhat metallic. But this… it could have been boiling water for all he cared. Every instinct in Hubert’s body told him to jerk away, but Edelgard held him fast; under the light of her Crest, the spirit’s strength held no threat. He choked it down, mouthful by mouthful, writhing in Edelgard’s grasp. If only he could be spared his own pathetic, pained noises that his lady tried to soothe away, stroking the sides of his face and holding him tighter. She was even kind enough to bar her arm over his cracked rib through all his writhing.

The agony didn’t limit itself to his throat, or the symbol on his chest; it spread, slowly, diffusing through him like blood through water. It was either working, or killing him—Hubert certainly couldn’t tell the difference in the throes of it.

The Crest certainly was killing the spirit. Or exorcising it agonizingly. It screamed and raged in him, worse than before the javelins of light. He could so easily forget the world, his existence narrowing to nothing but this searing pain and the spirit’s phantom howling.

Until… until nothing. Nothing but the taste of warm iron, the strength of Edelgard’s grip, and silence. _True_ silence, not the delusional madness of the night spirit or the moon. No heart beats. Just the sound of his breathing, and Edelgard’s. Hubert had stopped thrashing at one point; perhaps that was when his lady had removed her wrist. Darkness blanketed the office, reducing everything to a dim silhouette. Absently, he made a sound—the first note a laugh, perhaps. Hubert hadn’t seen—hadn’t experienced—the blindness of night in so many years.

And that feeling, from before. That horrible, phantom leadenness in his chest. He recognized it, now, as his eyes fluttered shut.

Exhaustion, and sleep.

\---

Something touched him.

“I am losing my patience.”

There, again. Incessant, annoying, a feeling against his shoulder, his cheek. A hand?

“Hubert. This will not end until you _drink._ ”

The world nauseatingly lurched, and when Hubert found the scarcest strength to crack open his eyes, the world blurred. His attempt at speech couldn’t even be called such.

“Well, that’s progress. Can you move?”

Move? Yes. Perhaps. His fingers sluggishly curled into his palm, and with a monumental effort, lifted his head, blinking through cracked eyes.

This was… the infirmary. Sitting up in bed, slumped against the headboard. The arm holding him up was Lady Edelgard’s he was sure, and he followed it to the familiar sight of her face. She smiled.

“At this rate, I might be out of here before midnight. You only need to take water, then I’ll let you sleep.”

His grunt was supposed to be an acknowledgement. Almost immediately, she had a grasp on his jaw with a stern _No! Not again!_ , lifting his face. When had he closed his eyes?

“ _Please_ , just… drink.”

A mug pressed to his lips. The chill of the water was something to focus on. How could he be so thirsty? Hadn’t he just—

Hubert blinked, and Edelgard and her mug were gone. Blearily, he looked around; a different cup sat on the bedside table beside a sparse collection of flowers. The garish orange-gold of late afternoon filtered through the curtains. Hadn’t Lady Edelgard just said something about midnight?

Slowly, through the oppressive haze of sleep, everything drifted back to him.

He’d been rubbing at his face when the door cracked open. “Oh, good. You’ve woken on your own.” 

Edelgard, again, and in her Imperial regalia this time. The greeting he croaked actually sounded like words, this time, even if his voice was terribly hoarse. His lady settled in the nearby chair.

Hubert couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

Eventually, he broke the silence. “...How long?”

“Mm? Six days, roughly. As it turns out, not sleeping for ten years has horrible side effects. Linhardt expects you’ll sleep several more.”

Six days. Six days, what day had it been when… Hubert rubbed at his eyes again, grumbling. “Can’t. March on Tailtean in three days.”

“ _That’s_ your first thought?” And like that, Edelgard’s gentler tone was gone, exasperation taking its stead. “I don’t think you’re in a position to make that decision.”

Hubert grimaced. Silence, again. She was right, he knew. He’d no doubt lost a great deal of rights to his decisions. If Edelgard permitted him to keep a place in this army at all. Gingerly, his hand wandered to where his rib had cracked; when no pain answered him, his fingers wandered to his sternum, pressing through the fabric of his shirt.

“Is it…?”

“Gone. We think. Nothing’s happened to you during the night, but… no way to be certain until next moon.”

What could he say? What could he _possibly_ say? How could he show his face to any of them? Hubert rested his face in his hand, an exhaustion entirely separate from the physical smothering him. Had this all occurred from any of his mages, he certainly knew what he would do to them. It was an abominable thing, feasting on the blood of human creatures, and all the more sick for the twisted delight he’d begun to derive from it. Now, without the night spirit’s claws in his mind, it felt so obvious, but…

“Don’t,” Edelgard murmured, and Hubert finally spared a shameful glance her way. Sorrow. That’s the only word he could think of for that expression. “I know you, Hubert, and I know you think this is unforgivable. Perhaps… it might be. But don’t think of it now. Heal, first. I… confronted you that night prepared for the possibility of having lost you, to… whatever the spirit was.”

Edelgard glanced away, her fingers curling in her skirts. But Hubert knew her, too; he could hear the unspoken in her averted glance, in the tension of her shoulders. _”And I had been prepared to kill you, if I must.”_

Good. He wouldn’t have it any other way. If he ever lost his mind or ideals to madness or monstrosity, Hubert could only wish to be struck down.

How very close he’d teetered on that precipice. 

“You had.” When Edelgard turned her attention back to him, holding her gaze was a struggle. How atrocious, the weight of guilt. “I… owe you more than I could ever give, Your Majesty.”

There it was again, that subtle shift into masked stoicism. Hubert had never been more desperate to know her thoughts, but… he’d never held any entitlement to them. Now, less than ever.

“Why?”

There existed no question Hubert wanted to avoid more. Eyes squeezing shut, he grimaced against the raw force of shame roaring through him. “Hubris. Desperation. Inexperience. We… we were young, as was our conspiracy, and so hopelessly beyond our means. I wanted control. An advantage. A way to ensure I could not fail you.”

“You… did this for me.”

“Yes,” Hubert breathed, like no more horrible secret existed. Like the mere utterance rent him in half. Like the utterance rent _Edelgard_ in half.

It probably did.

“How… how could you _ever_ believe I wanted this?! That I wanted—” She stopped suddenly, and Hubert didn’t dare look. Her next words were low, dangerous, and cut at him like barbs. “Except you knew I would condemn it. That’s why you hid it.”

“Yes. And I accept whatever judgement you deem fit.”

Edelgard stood abruptly enough to set her chair rocking back on its legs, stalking over to the window. “A fine example of broaching the exact subject I just forbade!” Even from across the room, he could hear her breath hissing through her teeth.

He was so very tired.

“Do you believe I enjoy it, Lady Edelgard?” Hubert waited until she glanced his way to continue. “Do you imagine going behind your back brings me joy? When we embarked on this path together, you entrusted me with a role beyond that of your retainer. I was to be the keeper of your ambitions. It was my duty to turn your face back to every awful truth, to remind you of every tragedy to lay broken by your hand on the journey to our better future. I am to whisper cruelties when you waver.”

Hubert laid back down, turning his gaze to the plain ceiling. “I have only had my own judgment to rely on, flawed by youth as it was. You entrusted me with something so much greater than myself: your hopes; your ideals; your ambitions. I will always do what I deem necessary to safeguard those things, and your future. Even if it harms you. Even if it harms me.”

His sigh felt heavier than mere air, and Hubert allowed his eyes to sink shut. “I regret my course of action. Knowing what I do now, I regret quite a bit of what I did at that age. But at the time… the spirit-calling was the only way I believed I could safeguard your ambitions, and fill such a tremendous role. Safeguarding your _wishes_ … was never a consideration. That isn’t what you entrusted to me.”

Silence. The claws of sleep grabbed at him, regret blanketing him more surely than any of the covers. Only the click of Edelgard’s shoes drew him back to the waking world, but he couldn’t bear opening his eyes to witness her expression.

“How was sacrificing your humanity beneficial to my future? How could a future born from that ever make me happy, when you always prized humanity so? In others, and yourself?”

“In all fairness, my lady, your happiness is not what you entrusted to me.”

Weight settled on the edge of the bed. “And if I did so now?” A touch alighted on his face; when Hubert opened his eyes, something… not quite sorrowful touched her features. Pity, perhaps? Bittersweet? “Would you then have no choice but to consider it?”

He didn’t know what to make of the hand resting against his cheek, or the look in Edelgard’s eyes.

“I… yes. Balanced against my other considerations, yes.”

“And if I entrusted you with your own happiness, as well?”

“So long as you are happy, I am—”

“Hubert.”

He heaved another sigh. “...Yes. I will draw it into my considerations.”

A faint smile touched Edelgard’s mouth, and what an improvement it was over her previously questioning stare. Her hand glided from his cheek to his jaw (and oh how he felt her glove catch on stubble, to his great irritation), along his chest to pause at the bottom of his sternum.

“...When you kissed me, was that…?”

Ah. _That._ Hubert averted his gaze.

“...my own intent. All the spirit did was unhinge my inhibitions.”

“I see.”

Her hand slid from his chest, but no reprimand came.

“Then… I should like you to do it again.” His bewilderment was met with an upward quirk of her mouth, and before Hubert could get a word in edgewise, Edelgard pressed a silencing finger to his mouth. “On several conditions. Heal, first, and manage a full meal. If you make good time, we can even discuss Tailtean. And…”

Her smile fell into something more sober. “Let me in. No more secrets, Hubert, and no more distance. I cannot abide being left in the dark any longer.”

Fair terms, if Edelgard was offering what he believed her to be. He ought to object, half-formed arguments on a variety of points haunting the back of his mind, but fatigue snared each one.

And then, she had just entrusted him with considering their respective happiness, hadn’t she?

“I understand.”

“Good.” Edelgard rose, but paused, her brow furrowing into something not unlike guilt. “I… realize that we still have a great deal to discuss. Perhaps too much, for the moment; I can’t pretend that I harbor no anger over this. But, when the war is over…”

“Then we’ll discuss whatever you wish.” No, that isn’t right. “ _Everything_ you wish—and things you do not. Topics long overdue.”

Edelgard nodded. “Agreed. Rest then, my friend.” She spared him a parting smile, and then the room was his again.

He gladly let sleep take him, at rest for the first time in years.

**Author's Note:**

> This one... definitely got away from me. I only planned about half the scenes in this prior to writing. Will I ever be able to stick to my outline to create a structured, themed work and not stream of consciousness all over it during the writing process? Place your bets now.


End file.
